


These Wild, Tender Longings

by ponderinfrustration



Series: Tired of the Boys [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Kisses, Mild Smut, Paris - Freeform, Sussex, This fandom needs more femslash, bisexual Janine, both of them just want someone to be close to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2486432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Paris where she meets the Woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Wild, Tender Longings

**Author's Note:**

> This may or may not become a regular thing, but I bloody love these two.

It’s closeness which she longs for most, the sense of connection with another person, another body pressed tight to hers on cold nights. She knew she hadn’t really found it with Sherlock, yet to know that the whole affair (she wish she could say it was torrid) had all been an elaborate ruse on his part still stung. Relegated to second-best once again, unnecessary once her role had been played. (It burns, almost more than she can bear, to have been within touching (tasting?) distance of that closeness – however faked – and lose it yet again.)

In Sussex, things are different. There’s the quiet which permeates the very walls of her cottage, seeping between the pages of her books. And the open fire is a undeniable comfort – warm, welcoming, reminiscent of long evenings studying in her teenage years. But she stills craves the closeness, an aching desire filling her heart to find someone _right_ this time, someone who isn’t using her for his – or her – own ends.

It’s Paris where she meets the Woman, cheekbones sharp as knives and lustrous dark hair falling abstractly over pale skin, lips reddened to the colour of blood and those bruising eyes, maddening. A jolt, a lurch, and both are falling onto satin sheets, a twisting, writhing mess of lips and fingers, legs intertwined, hands caressing and it’s gentle wildness, careful, conservative of this which is special, yet also fiery passion, desperation in each kiss and bite and _oh, yes, there, just there_ fist knotted into lustrous dark hair and legs parted, thrusting into heat, riding each other with the fading sunlight searing through the open curtains.

Danger races along behind them, high-speed car chases, running over roof tops, aliases uncovered, lies revealed, yet in the midst of it all Janine is alive, heart pounding through her chest, pale brown fingers interlaced with snow white ones, nails manicured to perfection in the desperate fight for their lives. (And when peace settles, fragile and hopeful, it’s two different shades of black hair mingling on the pillows, closeness with each other in the calm between battles, addiction raw and satisfied.  And this is enough.)


End file.
